


Challenger Number Six

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Instead of Going to Bed DAI Verse [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, some smutt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5316998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen and Amallia spar again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Challenger Number Six

**Author's Note:**

> Kiss Meme Prompt from @miraamell on Tumblr, "In front of everyone".

The crowd gathered around the sparring ring continued to grow as the sun began to set on Skyhold. Two, then three, then  _four_  people deep, all shouting and cheering their support as combatants fought.

Five. Five rounds straight, Commander Cullen Rutherford put each and every challenger out on their asses. Amallia watched from a distance, and he knew she was there on the outskirts of the spectators, watching him like a wolf stalking her prey. If anything, it spurred him to perform at his best, and he’d even outdone Delrin Barris who  _regularly_  gave him a run for his money in the ring.

“Anyone else?!” he shouted, arms raised to challenge, practice sword in the right and shield on his left. Sweat matted his hair into unruly curls and runnels of it trailed down his chest. He’d discarded his shirt, soaked through after the third bout and he wondered what Amallia thought of that.

He wouldn’t have to wait to ask. In a blinding blue flash, she appeared across from him in the ring, staff in hand and stripped down to her leggings and breast band. The gathered spectators hushed, voices dropping to whispers and Cullen could already hear the rumors spreading.

“I do recall you demanding a rematch last we sparred, no?” she asked loud enough from everyone to hear, goading him.

He grinned despite the sudden onslaught of nerves. They’d sparred numerous times since their first match last month and he’d learned much of her style. While evenly matched, he was five long fights exhausted and knew he could not keep up with her in such a state.

But he  _had_  asked for another challenger. There was no turning back now. He approached her to have quick word before they began, lest she think he would bow out.

“Mal, are you—” he began but she interrupted, holding up a hand.

“Same rules. No magic. And I’ll cut you a little slack,” she said with a slight furrow of her brow. “You look exhausted.”

He laughed, nerves still running on high. “I  _knew_  there was a reason I love you,” he jested and she giggled to herself.

“Ready?” she asked.

Cullen nodded and turned back to his side of the ring, rolling his neck and shoulders. Burning. Heavy. Too heavy. He discarded his shield, leaning it against the fence. Lighter this way, mobile. A few soldiers clapped him on the back, cheering for him, their Commander. When he turned around, he found Amallia facing her side of the ring, hands beckoning them and they cheered, rooting for her.

When she turned back to him, her grin fell to a grimace, and he knew she shook her head in dislike at his lack of a shield. She would have to be more careful this way and he would apologize later. Maker, he was getting too old for this.

His exhaustion made the first mistake immediately. Amallia leaped, her staff held at long range and arching,  _bending_ , as it whipped through the air to catch him on the hip. Soldiers nearby winced,  _oohs_  mingled with encouragement.

Their bout pressed on much the same as they always did, trading blows and dodging one another with equal skill. Minutes ticked by, the match quickly approaching a draw or a forfeit, and he knew Amallia would not call a draw unless he gave her cause. He’d have to give in on pure exhaustion alone, lest his body collapse and she capitalize on  _that_ , and Maker, he would  _not_  hear the end of it from his recruits.

Andraste’s  _tits,_ why had she taken her shirt off? It was damn distracting. With each sweep of her staff, every muscle from her waist to her shoulders  _flexed_ , and he wanted nothing more than to touch, to grasp,to _taste_  her flesh. Another rap of her staff on his elbow snapped him from the fantasy and he chastised himself for allowing the thought.

He dodged another whip and thrust of her staff, blocking and rolling to the side. She pursued, unrelenting, and he wondered if she really was going easy on him. He couldn’t tell any longer. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, aching with overuse, and the thought of just laying down there, forfeiting, appealed to him more and more with each second he remained on his feet.

 _There_. A glimmer of hope, a  _chance,_  and he  _lunged_ , legs using every last ounce of strength remaining. She’d faltered, staff spinning off balance and catching the ground behind her feet. The momentary delay gave him a split second to react and he _leaped_.

She pivoted too late. His sword rapped the knuckles of her right hand and the spasm of her fingers released her staff just as she had returned her grasp to the butt end in her left. Stunned, she froze, and though her hesitation lasted for less than a second, it was all Cullen needed. He grasped the wrist of right hand and hauled her into him with another step, stabbing out with his training sword.

It slid through the air between her arm and waist, coming nowhere near to touching her. With her right hand firmly grasped in his left and his right wrapped tightly around her waist, he trapped her against his bare chest, sweat and dirt mingling. He felt the heavy rise and fall of her breasts, band soaked through, and he kept her pinned to him.

A draw. Her grin, the one she reserved for his eyes only, hooked the right corner of her lips as she released her staff. Trust. She had trusted him to disarm at the same time as she and he had. He barely heard his sword land in the dirt as the spectators erupted in shouts of frustration at the result of the match. All of that for a damned draw?

Amallia made no attempt to escape his grasp and Cullen wasn’t finished. Not yet. He had one last move, one last technique he thought may put  _all_  of their frustration to rest. It was Skyhold’s worst kept secret. The  _Inquisitor_  and the _Commander_. Rumors be damned, maybe it was time to end the farce?

Her royal blue eyes stared into his, so wide, and her grin remained plastered to her face. Ready, she was ready for this, he could see it there in those blue pools. Abandoning all caution, his right hand pressed at the small of her back, dangerously low, and his left loosened on her wrist to thread between her fingers. His lips met hers in a rush, pressing, _crushing_ , and he leaned into her as her back arched into him.

Silence. He swore his moan, meant only for her ears, echoed like a bell struck across the entire yard. Everyone gathered about had stopped in their tracks, some turning back at the behest of others,  _look,_   _is he_ kissing _her, the Commander, he’s really_ kissing _her_ ,  _she’s kissing him back, look, the Inquisitor and the Commander, I told you, I knew it!_

When her arms wrapped around his shoulders, Cullen sighed once more, free, finally free, no more hiding, no more skulking, and he could have shouted it from the rooftops, he  _loved_  this woman and Maker take them all,  _she_   _loved him_. In a rush, he grasped her by the arse and hoisted her up, legs wrapping around his waist. Her lilting laughter drifted across the yard and not a single soul stopped them as Cullen carried Amallia to the tavern, kicking the door shut behind him. As he climbed the stairs, pushing his body to continue longer than he thought possible, he heard the recruits explode in a chorus of cheers loud enough to wake the dead.

“It seems we … have admirers …” Amallia mumbled against his insistent kisses.

He grunted against her lips as they collapsed on a pile of cushions. His feet cried out in relief, legs limp and useless. He whined in protest and attempted to will his exhaustion away only to fail miserably. Another soft cry against her lips and she squirmed beneath him to release.

“Maker, Cullen, are you alright? You look dreadful,” she admonished with a look of deep concern and a hand cupping his cheek.

“I am …” he gasped, so short of breath. “I’m too old for this shit.”

She laughed her belly laugh and it rang through the tavern as she pressed his head to her chest. Her fingers rubbed circles into his scalp and he hummed a sigh of pleasure into her chest. He wanted her, needed her something fierce, but there was no way, not in his current state.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Cullen?”

“Hm?”

“Go to sleep,” she commanded.

He smiled into her skin, lips pressing a half-hearted kiss to her collarbone, and within seconds, he obeyed.


End file.
